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Califo rnia Classics Series 
Charles Warren Stoddard 





LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



DDD137173HS 




Class __i?.i.x^ 
Book > 3 "' 



Copyright }j°_ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



CAUFORNIA CLASSICS SERIES 
Charles Warren Stoddard 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2010 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/apostrophetoskylOOstod 



California Cl£issics Series 



Charles Warren Stoddard 



Apostrophe to the Skylark 

The Bells of San Gabriel 

Joe of L.ah£una 

Father Damien Among His Lepers 



An Appreciation of 

Charles Warren Stoddard 

By George Wharton James 



Arroyo Guild Press, L.os Angeles. California. 



/^0 9 



1^ 



^-^ Copyright. 1909, by 

^ George Wharton James 

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©GLA253357 



CONTENTS 

Charles Warren Stoddard, by Mary E. Mannix 6 

Introduction, by the Publisher 7 

Apostrophe to the Skylark, by Charles Warren Stoddard 9 

The Bells of San Gabriel, by Charles Warren Stoddard 15 

with five pages in fac-simile from manuscript 

Joe of Lahaina, by Charles Warren Stoddard 25 

Father Damien Among His Lepers, by Charles Warren Stoddard. .39 

An Appreciation, by George Wharton James 45 



CHARLES WARREN STODDARD 



Rest to thy valiant soul, oft tempest-tossed, 
That never for an hour its anchor lost. 
But clasped Faith's standard closer, day by day. 
Through every turning of thy checkered way. 

Thou who didst joy in every beauteous thing, 
Thy pulses tuned to every throb of spring. 
Thou who didst suffer as that mortal must, 
Whose winged footsteps soar above the dust! 

Surpeme word-artist, whose bright pen could paint 
All Nature's moods — a savage or a saint, — 
Leading us spell-bound with thy harmonies 
Through Northern glades, o'er languorous Southern Seas, 
Welcomed and sheltered safe at last thou art. 
In God's deep harbor — Rest thee, troubled heart! 

— Mary E. Mannix. 



INTRODUCTION 



THIS is the first of a series of California Classics, to be issued monthly, or as often 
as demand arises. Each issue will consist of selections from the work of some 
California author that are deemed specially worthy and appropriate for this 
series, and will generally be followed by a short sketch of the life or appreciation of 
the work of the author. It is the intention to include in the series (provided the plan 
meets with public approval) W. C. Bartlett, John Muir, Edward Rowland Sill, Luther 
Burbank, Prentice Mulford, Sarah Carmichel, Bret Harte, Mark Twain, Ina Coolbrith, 
W. L. Manly, Frances Fuller Victor, Joaquin Miller, Ambrose Bierce, Edwin Mzirk- 
ham, Clarence King, Gertrude Atherton, Millicent Shinn, Gelett Burgess, Wallace 
Irwin, Charles F. Lummis, George Sterling, Frank Norris, Jack London, Mary Austin, 
Frank Pixley, Hubert Howe Bancroft, Robert J. Burdette, Virginia Reed Murphy, 
Edward W. Townsend (Chimmie Fadden), Charles Frederick Holder, Noah Brooks, 
Herman Scheffauer, Palmer Cox, R. W. TuUy, Eleanor Gates, Herman Whitaker, Idah 
M. Strobridge, Josephine Clifford McCrackin, Geraldine Bonner, Frances Charles, 
Miriam Michelson, Henry George, Walter Colton, Ross Browne, P. V. Mighels, Paul 
Shoup, Stewart Edward White, Theo. H. Hittell, David Starr Jordan, Charles Keeler? 
James King of Wm., Padre Palou, Wm. H. Rhodes (Caxton), Starr King, Willis George 
Emerson, Chas. K. Field, John Vance Cheney, Adeline Knapp, John S. McGroarty, W. 



California Classics Series 8 

E. Smythe, Belle E. Smith, Jerome Hart, Bailey Millard, Sam Davis, Louis Alexander 
Robinson, Bartholomew^ Dowling, Elizabeth Grinnell, Joseph LeConte, Richard Realf, 
Harriet Skidmore, Edward Pollock, Margaret Collier Graham. Edward Robeson Tay- 
lor, Olive Thome Miller, T. S. VanDyke, Madge Morris Wagner, Herbert Bashford, 
Sharlot Hall, Lionel Josaphare, Lorenzo Sosso, and others. 



APOSTROPHE TO THE SKYLARK 

Charles Warren Stoddard 



APOSTROPHE TO THE SKYLARK 



I crossed the railroad in the midst of one of the meadows, and 
having got safely into the meadov/ beyond, I came to a land of peace, 
where sheep were munching young grass, up to their eyes in wool. 
They muched and munched and stared with their blank, shallow, 
buttonlike eyes that seemed to be sewed into their ridiculous faces, 
all the while standing so still it seemed as if their stilt-like legs must 
have been driven a little way into the sod. There is a long path over 
the meadow — one cannot help following it with some cheerfulness, 
for unnumbered pilgrims have beaten it down with much passing to 
and fro— and, before many steps are taken, Stratford is forgotten, and 
there is nothing left in all the world so dear as the short sweet grass, 
the browsing sheep, the hedges, and the song-birds. In the midst of 
lush grass, compassed about by limitless greensward, the trees whose 
bark was black with rain, and more of those bland-faced sheep, I 
heard a voice that was as a new interpretation of nature — a piping. 



California Classics Series 12 

reedlike voice that seemed to be played upon by summer winds; a 
rushing rivulet of song fed from a ceaseless fountain of melodious 
joy. I looked for the singer whose contagious rhapsody accorded all 
nature to its theme! It was not of the earth; those golden notes 
seemed to shower out of the sky like sunbeams ; yet I saw no bird in 
the blank blue above me. If bird it were, it was invisible, and that 
voice was the sole evidence of its corporeal life. Such fingering of 
delicate stops and ventages, such rippling passages as compassed the 
gamut of bird ballads, — vague and variable as a symphony of river- 
reeds breathed into by soft gales, — such fine-spun threads of silken 
song; and then a g^sh of wild, delirious music — ^why did not that 
bird-heart break and the warm bundle of feathers drop back to earth, 
while the soul that had burst from its fleshly cage lived on for ever, 
a disembodied song! 

"Hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings!" Ah, how he sang! tipsy 



13 Charles Warren Stoddard 

with sunshine and sweet air, while the world was reeling below him, 
and the little worldlings were listening to his canticle with dumb won- 
derment. I found him at last, away up toward the planets, seem- 
ing the merest leaf afloat upon the invisible currents of the air. He 
was never at rest. It was not enough that his madrigal had revealed 
a new joy in life to one listener, at least; he must needs pant upon 
the waves of the air like a strong swimmer, crying out in an ecstasy. 
He drifted for a moment, and graciously descended toward the earth ; 
but his rapture was not yet ended, for he again aspired, and grew 
smaller than any leaf, and I saw nothing but a mote panting upon the 
bosom of a cloud, and heard nothing but a still small voice coming 
down to me out of the high heaven of his triumph. 

In his chapter in Exits and Entrances entitled "A Shottery Tryst," where 
Anne Hathaway lived, Stoddard describes the walk from Stratford, a mile away. 
It was on this walk he heard the skylark. 



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California Classics Series 16 



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17 Charles Warren Stoddard 

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THE BELLS OF SAN GABRIEL 

Charles 'Warren Stoddard 

From Ijhe Sunset ZKCagazine 

Thine was the corn and the wine, 

The blood of the grape that nourished ; 
The blossom and fruit of the vine 

That was heralded far away. 
These were thy gifts; and thine, 

When the vine and the fig-tree flourished, 
The promise of peace or of glad increase 

Forever and ever and aye. 
What then wert thou, and what art now? 

Answer me, O, I pray! 

And every note of every bell 

Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! 
In the tower that is left the tale to tell 

Of Gabriel, the Archangel. 



21 



Charles Warren Stoddard 



Oil of the olive was thine; 

Flood of the wine-press flowing; 
Blood o' the Christ was the wine — 

Blood o' the Lamb that was slain. 
Thy gifts were fat o' the kine 

Forever coming and going 
Far over the hills, the thousand hills — 

Their lowing a soft refrain. 
What then wert thou, and what art now? 

Answer me, once again ! 

And every note of every bell 
Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! 

In the tower that is left the tale to tell 
Of Gabriel, the Archangel. 



California Classics Series 22 

Seed o' the corn was thine — 

Body of Him thus broken 
And mingled with blood o' the vine — 

The bread and the wine of life ; 
Out of the good sunshine 

They were given to thee as a token, 
The body of Him, and the blood of Him, 

When the gifts of God were rife. 
What then wert thou, and what art now, 

After the weary strife? 

And every note of every bell 

Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! 
In the tower that is left the tale to tell 

Of Gabriel, the Archangel. 



23 Charles Warren Stoddard 

Where are they now, O, bells? 

Where are the fruits o' the mission? 
Garnered where no one dwells, 

Shepherd and flock are fled. 
O'er the Lord's vineyard swells 

The tide that with fell perdition 
Sounded their doom and fashioned their tomb 

And buried them with the dead. 
What then wert thou, and what art now? 

The answer is still unsaid. 

And every note of every bell 

Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! 
In the tower that is left the tale to tell 

Of Gabriel, the Archangel. 



California Classics Series 24 

Where are they now, O tower ! 

The locusts and wild honey? 
Where is the sacred dower 

That the bride of Christ was given? 
Gone to the wielders of power, 

The misers and minters of money; 
Gone for the greed that is their creed — 

And these in the land have thriven. 
What then wert thou, and what art now, 

And wherefore hast thou striven? 

And every note of every bell 

Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! 
In the tower that is left the tale to tell 
Of Gabriel, the Archangel. 

Chas. Warren Stoddard. 
Monterey, California, 1906. 



JOE OF LAHAINA 

Charles Warren Stoddard 



JOE OF LAHAINA 



I WAS stormed in at Lahaina. Now, Lahaina is a little slice of 
civilization, beached on the shore of barbarism. One can easily 
stand that little of it, for brown and brawny heathendom becomes 
more wonderful and captivating by contrast. So I was glad of dear, 
drowsy, little Lahaina ; and was glad, also, that she had but one broad 
street, which possibly led to destruction, and yet looked lovely in the 
distance. It didn't matter to me that the one broad street had but one 
side to it ; for the sea lapped over the sloping sands on its lower edge, 
and the sun used to set right in the face of every solitary citizen of 
Lahaina, just as he went to supper. 

I was waiting to catch a passage in a passing schooner, and that's 
why I came there ; but the schooner flashed by us in a great gale from 
the south, and so I was stormed in indefinitely. 

It was Holy Week, and I concluded to go to housekeeping, because 
it would be so nice to have my frugal meals in private, to go to mass 



California Classics Series 28 

and vespers daily, and then to come back and feel quite at home. My 
villa was suburban — built of dried grasses on the model of a haystack 
dug out in the middle, with doors and windows let into the four sides 
thereof. It was planted in the midst of a vineyard, with avenues 
stretching in all directions under a network of stems and tendrils. 

"Her breath is sweeter than the sweet winds 
That breathe over the grape-blossoms of Lahaina." 

So the song said ; and I began to think upon the surpassing sweetness 
of that breath, as I inhaled the sweet winds of Lahaina, while the 
wilderness of its vineyards blossomed like the rose. I used to sit in 
my veranda and turn to Joe (Joe was my private and confidential 
servant), and I would say to Joe, while we scented the odor of grape, 
and saw the great banana-leaves waving their cambric sails, and heard 
the sea moaning in the melancholy distance — I would say to him, 



29 Charles Warren Stoddard 

"Joe, housekeeping is good fun, isn't it?" Whereupon Joe would utter 
a sort of unanimous Yes, with his whole body and soul ; so that ques- 
tion was carried triumphantly, and we would relapse into a comfort- 
able silence, while the voices of the wily singers down on the river 
front would whisper to us, and cause us to wonder what they could 
possibly be doing at that moment in the broad way that led to destruc- 
tion. Then we would take a drink of cocoa-milk, and finish our 
bananas, and go to bed, because we had nothing else to do. 

This is the way that we began our co-operative housekeeping : One 
night, when there was a riotous sort of festival off in a retired valley, 
I saw, in the excited throng of natives who were going mad over 
their national dance, a young face that seemed to embody a whole 
tropical romance. On another night, when a lot of us were bathing 
in the moonlight, I saw a figure so fresh and joyous that I began to 
realize how the old Greeks could worship mere physical beauty and 



Califoroia Classic:s Series 30 

forget its higher forms. Then I discovered that face on this body — a 
rare enough combination — and the whole constituted Joe, a young 
scapegrace who was schoohng at Lahaina, under the eye — not a very 
sharp one — of his uncle. When I got stormed in, and resolved on 
housekeeping for a season, I took Joe, bribing his uncle to keep the 
peace, which he promised to do, provided I gave bonds for Joe's irre- 
proachable conduct while with me. I willingly gave bonds — verbal 
ones — for this was just what I wanted of Joe: namely, to instil into 
his youthful mind those counsels which, if rigorously followed, must 
result in his becoming a true and unterrified American. This compact 
settled, Joe took up his bed — a roll of mats — and down we marched 
to my villa, and began housekeeping in good earnest. 

We soon got settled, and began to enjoy life, though we were not 
without occasional domestic infelicities. For instance, Joe would 
wake up in the middle of the night, declaring to me that it was mom- 



31 Charles Warren Stoddard 

ing, and thereupon insist upon sweeping out at once, and in the most 
vigorous manner. Having filled the air with dust, he would rush off 
to the baker's for our hot rolls and a pat of breakfast butter, leaving 
me, meantime, to recover as I might. Having settled myself for a 
comfortable hour's reading, bolstered up in a luxurious fashion, Joe 
would enter with breakfast, and orders to the effect that it be eaten 
at once and without delay. It was useless for me to remonstrate with 
him ; he was tyrannical. 

He got me into all sorts of trouble. It was Holy Week, and I had. 
resolved upon going to mass and vespers daily. I went. The soft 
night-winds floated in through the latticed windows of the chapel, and 
made the candles flicker upon the altar. The little throng of natives 
bowed in the oppressive silence, and were deeply moved. It was rest 
for the soul to be there; yet, in the midst of it all, while the Father, 
with his pale, sad face, gave his instructions, to which we listened as 



California Classics Series 32 

attentively as possible — for there was something in his manner and 
his voice that made us better creatures — while we listened, in the 
midst of it I heard a shrill little whistle, a sort of chirp, that I knew 
perfectly well. It was Joe, sitting on a cocoa-stump in the garden 
adjoining, and beseeching me to come out, right off. When service 
was over I remonstrated with him for his irreverence. "Joe," I said, 
"if you have no respect for religion yourself, respect those who are 
more fortunate than you." But Joe was dressed in his best, and quite 
wild at the entrancing loveliness of the night. "Let's walk a little," 
said Joe, covered with fragrant wreaths, and redolent of cocoanut-oil. 
What could I do? If I had tried to do anything to the contrary, he 
might have taken me and thrown me away somewhere into a well or 
a jungle, and then I could no longer hope to touch the chord of re- 
morse — which chord I sought vainly, and which I have since concluded 
was not in Joe's physical corporation at all. So we walked a little. 



33 Charles Warren Stoddard 

In vain I strove to break Joe of the shocking habit of whistling me 
out of vespers. He would persist in doing it. Moreover, during the 
day he would collect crusts of bread and banana-skins, station himself 
in ambush behind the curtain of the window next the lane, and, as 
some solitary creature strode solemnly past, Joe would discharge a 
volley of ammunition over him, and then laugh immoderately at his 
indignation and surprise. Joe was my pet elephant, and I was obliged 
to play with him very cautiously. 

One morning he disappeared. I was without the consolation of a 
breakfast, even. I made my toilet, went to my portmanteau for my 
purse — for I had decided upon a visit to the baker — when lo! part of 
my slender means had mysteriously disappeared. Joe was gone, and 
the money also. All day I thought about it. In the morning, after a 
very long and miserable night, I woke up, and when I opened my 
eyes, there, in the doorway, stood Joe, in a brand-new suit of clothes. 



California Classics Series 34 

including boots and hat. He was gorgeous beyond description, and 
seemed overjoyed to see me, and as merry as though nothing unusual 
had happened. I was quite startled at this apparition. "Joseph!" I 
said in my severest tone, and then turned over and looked away from 
him. Joe evaded the subject in the most delicate manner, and was 
never so interesting as at that moment. He sang his specialties, and 
played clumsily upon his bamboo flute — to soothe me, I suppose — 
and wanted me to eat a whole flat pie which he had brought home as 
a peace-offering, buttoned tightly under his jacket. I saw I must 
strike at once, if I struck at all ; so I said, "Joe, what on earth did you 
do with that money?" Joe said he had replenished his wardrobe, and 
bought the flat pie especially for me. "Joseph," I said, with great 
dignity, "do you know that you have been stealing, and that it is 
highly sinful to steal, and may result in something unpleasant in the 
world to come?" Joe said, "Yes," pleasantly, though I hardly think 



55 Charles Warren Stoddard 

he meant it ; and then he added, mildly, "that he couldn't lie"-*'which 
was a glaring falsehood — "but wanted me to be sure that he took the 
money, and so had come back to tell me." 

"Joseph," I said, "you remind me of our noble Washington ;" and, 
to my amazement, Joe was mortified. He didn't, of course, know who 
Washington was, but he suspected that I was ridiculing him. He 
came to the bed and haughtily insisted upon my taking the little 
change he had received from his customers, but I implored him to keep 
it, as I had no use at all for it, and, as I had assured him, I much 
preferred hearing it jingle in his pocket. 

The next day I sailed out of Lahaina, and Joe came to the beach 
with his new trousers tucked into his new boots, while he waved his 
new hat violently in a final adieu, much to the envy and admiration of 
a score of hatless urchins, who looked upon Joe as the glass of fashion, 
and but little lower than the angels. When I entered the boat to set 



California Classics Series 36 

sail, a tear stood in Joe's bright eye, and I think he was really sorry 
to part with me ; and I don't wonder at it, because our housekeeping 
experiences were new to him — and, I may add, not unprofitable. 

— From South Sea Idylls. 



FATHER DAMIEN AMONG HIS LEPERS 

Charles Warren Stoddard 



FATHER DAMIEN AMONG HIS UEPERS 



IN those last days I used to seek the Father and find him, now at 
the top of a ladder, hammer and nail in hand ; or in the garden, or 

the hospital ward, or the kitchen, or away on a sick-call, as the 
case might be. It was seldom he could sit with me, for not a moment 
was he really free. Once I captured him, on a plea of paying my 
parting call. With the greatest reluctance, and only at my urgent re- 
quest, he went in search of his decoration. It was found in its neat 
morocco case, hidden away in an unvisited comer, with the dust an 
inch thick on it. "It is not for this that I am here," said he, dis- 
paragingly; and he acknowledged that he had never put the riband 
about his neck; indeed he had hardly looked at the bauble since the 
day when the Bishop desired him to wear it for the gratification of 
his simple flock. 

OncQ I wandered alone into the chapel; a small organ was stand- 
ing near an open window ; beyond the window was the very pandanus 



California Classics Series 40 

tree under which Father Damien found shelter when he first came to 
Kalawao. I sat at the instrument, dreaming over the keys, and think- 
ing of the life one must lead in such a spot; of the need and the lack 
of human sympathy; of the solitude of the soul destined to a com- 
munion with perpetual death — and, hearing a slight rustling near me, 
I turned, and found the chapel nearly filled with lepers, who had 
silently stolen in, one after another, at the sound of the organ. The 
situation was rather startling; but when I asked where Father Da- 
mien might be found they directed me, and stood aside to let me pass. 
I found him where I might have known he was likely to be found, 
working bravely among his men, he by far the most industrious of 
them all. As I approached them unobserved, the bell of the little 
chapel rang out the Angelus ; on the instant they all knelt, uncovered, 
and in their midst the priest recited the beautiful prayer, to which 
they responded in soft, low voices, — while the gentle breeze rustled 



41 Charles Warren Stoddard 

the broad leaves about them, and the sun poured a flood of glory 
upon their bowed forms. Lepers all of them, save the good pastor, 
and soon to follow in the ghastly procession, whose motionless bodies 
he blesses in their peaceful sleep. 

Angelus Domini ! Was not that sight pleasing in the eyes of God? 

— From The Lepers of Molokai. 



CHARLES WARREN STODDARD 

George Wharton James 



CHARLES WARREN STODDARD 



An Appreciation 

There is a familiar old adage which reads: "He who has friends must show 
himself friendly." Never did an old saw find a truer "modern instance" than did 
this as manifested in the life of the poet-philosopher, Charles Warren Stoddard. 
He was affectionately termed by thousands of people, "Charlie Stoddard," even by 
those who had never personally met him, because those who did know him gen- 
erally gave him this sign of near comradeship and affection. He had a great big 
heart that was moved to love the Holy Father upon his papal throne, or the poor 
waif in the streets, and every grade and type between. Aye, he went further, he 
had love and sympathy to spare for the abused dog or mule whose master did 
not know enough to appreciate the faithfulness and devotion of these so-called 
lower animals. 

And yet, with all this wealth of affection, he was a poor judge of human 
nature who imagined that Stoddard was incapable of seeing the failings of men. 
He was keenly alive to the evil and weak as well as the good and strong, but his 
soul was so attuned to the S3mipathy that we call Divine, that he was able to love 
in spite of the unlovable elements in those with whom he came in contact. 



California Classics Series 46 

I thus emphasize this feature of the life of Stoddard for I feel that it was 
one of the chief— if not the chief — element in his wonderfully cosmopolite nature. 
It explains so many things that the critical cannot understand — ^as, for instance, 
his devoted friendship and life with the Sandwich Islanders; his close association 
with the Bohemian members of the dramatic profession; his intimacy with ascetic 
priests and the most refined, pure and cultivated women; his "at-homeness" with 
men of world-renown as statesmen, men-of-letters, artists and the like. He was 
the intimate friend and bosom companion of Mark Twain; and Kipling, Steven- 
son, Bret Harte, and scores of other geniuses felt honored as well as charmed by 
his fellowship and association. For there was not only this great and prime ele- 
ment of loveableness in his make-up, but there were other qualities of mind and 
soul that appealed strongly to all these differing types of humanity. 

One of these was his frank ingenuousness. He was always "as simple as a 
child." Anyone who knew him could see his inner heart reflected in every thing 
he said and wrote, and could well believe the statement he inscribed on the fly- 
leaf of his "For the Pleasure of His Company," which he sent to me: "Here you 
have my confessions. This is one of the truest stories ever told. Do not think 
me egotistical: I am merely painfully ingenuous." And he signed this, not only 



47 Charles Warren Stoddard 

with his own name, but also with that of the "hero" of the book, Paul Clitheroe. 

All of his books, from the first to the last, possess this rare quality. Let us 
look at them for a moment with this thought mainly in view, for it will be seen 
to have actually dominated his whole literary life. 

"South Sea Idylls" were originally letters of his personal experiences, written 
to a friend in California, with the expectation that they would be published in 
one of the San Francisco newspapers- In his own naive and delightfully simple 
fashion, he tells what he saw, felt and experienced, and' it is this fresh, unspoiled, 
child-heart revealing its inner thought in choice, poetic, epigramatic, rippling Eng- 
lish that gives the main charm to the book. 

"Hawaiian Life, or Lazy Letters from Low Latitudes," and "The Island of 
Tranquil Delights," are similar heart out-pourings of personal experiences in the 
dear tropic islands he loved so well, as is also "The Lepers of Molokai," the record 
of the especial work of Father Damien among the poor outcasts on the lonely 
shores of that sad island. 

Few other men could have written such books as his "Exits and Entrances," 
"In the Footprints of the Padres," and "Over the Rocky Mountains to Alaska," 
for they are so brim-full of personal matter that with anyone else the reader would 



California Classics Series 48 

feel that the author was a bundle of conceit and egotism. Yet not only do you 
not feel anything of the kind in reading these books, but, on the contrary, you feel 
honored and flattered that this keen-brained and poetic man has taken you into 
his intimate confidence and given you to know how he saw and felt about the 
things described. Equally so is it with the semi-religious books he wrote: "The 
Wonder "Worker of Padua," and "A Troubled Heart." In the former, with the 
combination of the twentieth century man of culture and the simple, unquestion- 
ing faith of the peasant of the ninth century he tells of the Saint he loved — Saint 
Anthony, and the miracles he performed. No unbeliever he! Out of the largeness 
of his own soul and its childlike simplicity he poured his belief: God is great, God 
is loving, God is tender, God is our Father, and to bless His children He will allow 
His devoted servants to do any wonderful thing they will. "A Troubled Heart 
and How it was Comforted at Last," was such a childlike outpouring of the soul 
before God and man that its very simplicity brought tears to the eyes of at least 
one reader, not one of his accepted faith, yet one to whom the sweet and tender 
confidences came with vividness and power. 

In this one-sided glance at Mr. Stoddard's work I have mentioned eight books 
— all of them prose and all possessed of this personal charm. Yet, strange to say. 



49 Charles Warren Stoddard 

he began his literary life as a poet, and as a poet he was always known. This is 
the more remarkable when it is recalled that for many, many years he scarce 
wrote a line of poetry. Just a few times between the years of, say, 1876 and 1905 
he tempted the muse, otherwise all he wrote and published was prose. But what 
kind of prose? Oh, that I had the space of a dozen booklets of this size to call 
the attention of its readers to the richness of his prose! I have been, in my half 
century of life, not a lazy reader of the best our language affords of poetry and 
prose, yet it has been seldom that I have found such thrilling satisfaction as has 
often been given to me in reading what Stoddard has written. Take, for instance, 
his description of a skylark singing, heard as he walked from Stratford-on-Avon 
to Shottery, and given on pages 80, 81 and 82 of "Exits and Entrances." I have 
read Shelley's "Ode to a Skylark," both in solitude and to many and varied audi- 
ences, and every student knows its rich and exuberant poesy. Its play of fancy 
sets it apart as one of the purest and richest of England's many fine poems. Yet 
here comes Stoddard, a stranger to England, a Californian, and in prose as rich, 
florid, eloquent, and pure as is Shelley's poetry, he gives a literally true description 
— not a poetic fancy — of the bird whose singing rivaled that of the mocking-bird 
he knew so well. This description is chosen to open the series of California Clas- 



California Classics Series ^0 

sics. It is worthy of perpetuation in most beautiful form, and this is an humble 
attempt to give it a proper place in our literature. 

But it is not alone to its poetic quality that his prose owes its charm, nor to 
that rich personal touch to which I have given such prominence. Another quality, 
almost equally insistent with these is always present, and that is his quaint, un- 
expected humor. Just as a laughing child likes to peer suddenly out of hidden 
corners and cry, "Boo!" so does Stoddard thrust his sly wit and subtle humor be- 
fore you.. And it is both sly and subtle.. Yet never meanly sly, or harsh. Never 
did he say an unkind word, or an impure one. Humor that bordered on the vulgar, 
or that relied for its interest upon an unclean double entendre never found place 
on Stoddard's pages. He has no objection to giving his chapters titles that seem 
to be most suggestive of strange and awkward situations, but he does it all as 
simply and unconsciously as a tiny child will come into a crowded guest-room 
clad only in her night-robe to bid her papa and mamma "Good night!" And if the 
prurient pick up his books and begin to r'iad these chapters expecting something 
risque they finish every word of them and put the book aside with the fever of 
impurity quenched and filled with a new refreshment and satisfaction that comes 



51 Charles Warren Stoddard 

from the chaste, the sweet, the wholesome and the good, given with childlike 
frankness and ingeniousness. 

Of his poetry I might write almost as much as of his prose, especially if I 
were to present it from the purely Californian standpoint. He was one of the first, 
as he was one of the keenest, of observers in the new land, with the power of 
expression to tell in vivid and rich verse that which he saw and felt. His early 
poems, written in the 'seventies and collected and edited by Bret Harte might well 
be used as studies of California scenery and climate. Even in those early days 
he was a coiner of rich phrases. Here are a few taken from his first published 
poem in the Overland Monthly for July, i860. It is entitled: "In the Sierras." 

"The misty girdle of the hills of God." 

"My good horse cast the snow-seals from his hoofs." 

"We there beheld 
The flowerlike track of the coyote near 
The fairy tracery where the squirrel skipped 
Graceful and shy, and farther on we saw 
The smooth divided hollows where the doe 
Dropped her light foot and lifted it away; 
Anon the print of some designing fox 



California Classics Series 52 

Or dog's more honest paw; the solid bowls 
That held the heavy oxen's spreading hoof; 
And suddenly, in awe, the bear's broad palm, 
With almost human impress." 

I have been led on to quote more than I intended in this poetic description 
of "tracks." There are not many passages in our literature that display any keener 
observation and ability to express. 

Here are a few more quotable phrases: "The sky's blue vacancy," "The sunny 
dream of autumn's plentiful and ever-lingering, everlasting peace," "The happy 
robin's tender tremuli." 

His next poem — in the August, 1868, Overland, was on the "Snow Plant," and 
it can be used as a description, so carefully did he observe and transcribe. In the 
September issue he gives us "In Clover," and in that occurs this oft-quoted stanza 
on the bee: 

"0 little hump-back bumble-bee! 

smuggler! breaking my repose; 
I'll slyly watch you now and see 
Where all the honey grows." 



53 Charles Warren Stoddard 

In the November number he gives "Robinson Crusoe — A Dream of Youth," 
and in that poem unconsciously reveals his love of the peace and freedom from 
turmoil that afterwards so lured him to the "Island of Tranquil Delights." Listen: 

"0, happy life of simple ways! 
0, long recurrence of sweet days! 
0, incident of sun and shower, 
And great event of opening flower." 

And who that loves the robin cannot re-echo two lines of his song in the 
December Overland? 

"0, call me with your warble 
Away from sin and woe." 

Such were Charles Warren Stoddard's earliest lays. 

In speaking of the "style" of Stoddard one other most important feature 
should not be forgotten. I know of no writer of so-called "profane" literature of 
the nineteenth and twentieth centuries who uses the Bible so mucn, and so well. 
The terse, vigorous, condensed power of this "well of undefiled English" was thor- 
oughly understood by Stoddard, and the draughts he makes upon it are amazing. 



California Classics Series 54 

He unconsciously explains the reason in one of his books where he says: "On 
leaving home, my mother's last injunction was to read daily some chapters of my 
Bible, and this I never failed to do. What solemn hours were mine, alone in my 
cramped state-room, poring over that wonderful volume, and every day I became 
more and more perplexed with its histories and mysteries!" This early habit of 
Bible reading, and, as he calls it, "poring over it," stored his retentive memory with 
the most perfect phrases in the English language, which, later, transferred bodily 
to his writings, produced a wonderful effect. 

There were six distinct epochs in Mr. Stoddard's lif e. - There were: I. His 
journey to California when a boy. II. His association with Bret Harte and the 
other literary giants of California's Golden Age of Literature. III. His first trip 
to the South Seas. IV. His trips to Europe. V. His occupation of the Chairs of 
English Literature at Notre Dame, Ind., and the Catholic University, Washington, 
D. C. VI. His retirement and return to California. 

He was born ni Rochester, N. Y., August 7, 1843. When twelve years old — 
hir father having already come to California — he and his mother made the journey, 
across the Nicaraguan Isthmus, from New York to San Francisco. Imagine the 
twelve-year-old boy, just at the impressionable, adolescent period, and with his 



55 Charles Warren Stoddard 

introspective poetic temperament, taking such a trip; the sudden change from 
gray-skied New York to the flaming firmament of the near-tropics; the excitement 
of going aboard a vessel in a great city, the good-byes, the sailing down the coast, 
the life of the sailors, the storms, the calms, the tropic sea, the first sight of palms 
and oranges and Indians and all the Isthmian wonders, and then the ship-ride up 
the Pacific Coast and the landing in weird, wild, excitable San Francisco, just be- 
ginning to know that it was going to become a city. No intelligent child could 
take such a journey and not be affected by it so long as he lived, but to such an 
one as Stoddard it was epoch-forming. It gave him pictures to brood over, to 
think about, to dream upon, to describe, and his youthful fancy, thus excited into 
a tremendous activity, never again slumbered or slept. It was ever wide awake 
for scenes new and strange, but this taste of the sea and the wild freedom of the 
life of the Isthmus was never fully satisfied, though he took six or more trips to 
the Sandwich Islands later on. To this was added the return trip East, taken two 
years later, with a sick elder brother who was ordered back to the Atlantic shore. 
This was in a sailing vessel around Cape Horn and took ninety-one days, on only 
five of which did they see land. 

Now for two years he remained in New England; and, perchance, these two 



California Classics Series 56 

years should be called another distinct epoch in his life. Certainly they were, in 
the effect they had upon his later years, for in them was formed the conscious dis- 
like for the harsh and austere ceremonies of the faith of his grandfather that ulti- 
mately led him into the bosom of the Catholic Church. The experiences of this 
time are vividly told in the story of his conversion. On his return to California 
he went to school and then to business, and, while a clerk in a book store, began 
to write poetry and anonymously send it to the local papers. This led to his dis- 
covery by the Reverend Thomas Starr King, that Unitarian preacher of large heart 
and discerning mind who did so much in the early days of California to help her 
struggling literary aspirants. He prevailed upon Stoddard to go back to school, 
which he did, but the habit of poetizing continued, and the Golden Era and the 
Californian (those early pioneers of California literary magazines) received many 
of his lines. In those days he made the acquaintance — which to him always meant 
a permanent friendship — of Bret Harte, Joaquin Miller, Mark Twain, Prentice Mul- 
ford, Ina Coolbrith, Robert Louis Stevenson, Ambrose Bierce, and others whose 
names and high places in the literature of the English-speaking peoples none will 
ever question. Think what this must have meant to all of these gifted minds; all 
young, all impressionable, all companionable (more or less), all original, all seeking 



57 Charles Warren Stoddard 

the most perfect expression for thoughts about, and descriptions of, this great new 
Pacific world, with its marvelous strange scenery, its Spanish, Mexican, Mission, 
Indian, gold-mining, cow-boy, stage-driving, pioneer life. No wonder they wrote 
and wrote well. The conditions were enough almost to provoke mediocrity into 
genius, and this little coterie helped each other to do most perfect work. Stoddard 
tells how he criticized Miller, and how Harte and Miss Coolbrith criticized them 
both. And such criticism meant the eternal betterment of critic and criticized 
alike. 

Then came the founding of the Overland Monthly. It was Stoddard who 
suggested to Anton Roman, the founder, the name of Bret Harte as editor, and 
he and Miss Coolbrith, (who were always devoted friends), were soon so deep in 
the plans for the success of the new magazine that they were dubbed "The Golden 
Gate Trinity," and remained such until Harte passed on. 

But the fame of writing poetry did not pay Stoddard's bills, and he was 
compelled to look about for a means of livelihood, and it was thus early in his 
career that the dramatic profession was urged upon him. For awhile he went on 
the stage, in buckskin and tinsel, and his experiences, both outward and inward, 
are deliciously described in "For the Pleasure of His Company." He tells of his 



California Classics Series 58 

self-discussions as to his permanency at such work; his final abandonment of it; 
his poverty; pawning and losing his watch; engagement in book-keeping; his flight 
to the South Seas and hie determination to stay there. This South Sea visit was 
the third great epoch in his life, for it led to the writing of his books on the South 
Seas — a subject in which he is confessedly the master of the literary world. In 
vividness of description, wealth of color, rare quaint humor, native appreciation, 
deep sympathetic insight, they stand unequaled. Turn to any page you will in 
one of these three volumes and begin to read and you will not lay the book down 
until the chapter or incident is concluded. Everything is so natural, so spontane- 
ous, so vivid, so naive, that, you are charmed, lured, absorbed; and that is evi- 
dently the secret of a writer's power. 

These books were all written originally as newspaper letters, and their suc- 
cess was so unbounded, that they opened up a new field of endeavor, because they 
afforded an abundant living, and he was sent to Europe to travel and write for the 
San Francisco Chronicle and other papers. In this work he saw the Old World 
and all its leading lights — political, social, literary, scientific, dramatic, editorial — 
and thus gained that mental aplomb that comes only with such knowledge and 
personal contact. Yet his plunge into the civilizations of the Old World had such 



59 Charles Warren Stoddard 

an effect upon him that he was compelled to return to his first love — ^the South 
Seas — in order to regain the simple content his soul pined for. 

Then came a wonderful change- He had already embraced Catholicism, and, 
to his great surprise, he was offered the professorship of English Literature at the 
College of Notre Dame, Indiana. He accepted it, and thus entered upon the next 
distinct epoch of his life. This position he honored and adorned for two years and 
then he was called to the higher and more responsible post at the Catholic Uni- 
versity, Washington, D. C. This was in 1889, and here he remained, doing his 
work faithfully and well, beloved of students and faculty, visitors and Washington 
residents, until about 1892, when he resigned, went to live in Cambridge, Mass., 
and finally yielded to the "call of the West," and returned to his beloved California. 

This was his last change, his final epoch. He did not know this, though he 
always expressed the hope that he would die in California, but the day and the 
hour were mercifully kept from his knowledge and that of his friends. One of the 
last times I saw him he was seriously contemplating a return to the East. His 
experiences during the great earthquake of 1906 so shattered his nervous system 
that he felt himself in a state of continuous fear lest another earthquake should 
come. 



California Classics Series 60 

It was during this final period that some of his poorest, and also, some of his 
strongest, work was done. He himself felt keenly his inability to make what he 
wished to make out of his articles on the "Romance of the Missions," and both in 
our conversation and correspondence he referred to it with gloom. And yet per- 
haps nothing he ever wrote, either in prose or poetry, will live longer than his 
poem on the Bells of San Gabriel. With all the sweep of his old-time, youthful 
vigor, he describes the Mission in its palmy day, and then demands to know where 
its power has gone. With a stern "Answer me now, I pray!" he stands before 
the despoilers of the Indians and the Missions established for them, and then, with 
the power of an Elijah or Jeremiah, he empties the vials of his wrath as an aveng- 
ing angel upon them for their vile, degrading theft. But the sad, insistent re- 
frain, rings ever in one's ears, with an onamatopoetic power that is seldom found 
in any verse. 

"And every note of every bell 
Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! 
In the tower that's left the tale to tell, 
Of Gabriel, the Archangel!" 



^^ Charles Warren Stoddard 

In November of 1908 he wrote me: 

"Dear Seaeeless Wanderer — 

"I have crept into a small box of a bungalow to hyburnate. There are for 
fin fJ°^!^^ packed together A widow, her daughter, a dog and a cat and myself 

you wiU come*'* * ' '^'^^ ^''' ^°^ ^ '^^" ^' ^'^^ *° ^"^ y°" " 

"I'd be all right but for my rhumatism, which often troubles me. Aloha!" 

I have italicized three words in this little letter purposely. How we used to 
laugh over his phonetic spelling! He vowed he never could learn to spell This 
proves he was right. Dear old Charlie! Who cared whether you spelled dictionary- 
wise or not, so long as he might be privileged to receive your letters? In them 
were condensed the poetry, wisdom, humor, insight, passion, love, of your sweet 
and beautiful soul. Now we shall receive them no more, but often, in spirit, shall 
we sit down and wait, feeling out towards your own beautiful spirit until we are 
filled with its richness and love. For, in this little bungalow, on the sixth of April, 
1909, the call for the higher and newer life came to him— the call that all must 
obey— and the earth lost all but the mortal part of Charles Warren Stoddard. 

(Reproduced from The HeJwooJ) 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The quotations of this booklet are taken as follows, and due 
acknowledgement for their use herebygratefalljrtendered : ^"^ 



"The Apostrophe to the SkylaJp' is from-**EHts and Entrances " 
published 1903, by Lothrop Publishing Company, Boston, Mass. 
"The Bells of San Gabriel" is from the "Sunset Magazine," Charles 
Sedgwick Aiken, editor, published San Francisco, Calif. "Joe of 
Lahaina" is from "South Sea Idylls," originally published in 1873. 
Republished, 1904, by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York. "Father 
Pamien Among His Lepers" is from "Lepers of Molokai," published 
by the Ave Maria Press, Notre Dame, Indiana. The appreciation of 
Charles Warren Stoddard was originally printed in The Redwood, 
Santa Clara College, Calif. 



This is the last page of the 
first of the Arroyo Guild's 
California Classics Series, 
devoted to the life and works 
of California authors. The 
first author presented is 
Charles Warren Stoddard, of 
sweet and precious memory. 
Herein are choice quotations 
from Ms works and an 
humble appreciation by his 
friend, George Wharton 
James, who is responsible 
for this booklet. Done in 
the year of Our Lord 1909, 
in the month of November, 
at the Arroyo Guild Press, 
201 Avenue 66 (Garvanza), 
Los Angeles, California 



t Bl^^'*^' 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



. '• '7?i ;, '-A 



